His father said nothing in answer but went on drinking whiskey-and-soda in delicate gulps.

The pêche Melba arrived with its dripping veil of of thick red Escoffier sauce. The two slices had been joined together so that the buttock-like shape of the fruit was again apparent. 

“It’s like a celluloid cupid doll’s behind,” said Orvil to himself. “This cupid doll has burst open and is pouring out lovely snow and great big clots of blood.”

Orvil put some of the metallic-tasting red sauce on his tongue. His father watched indulgently and carefully until the last bit of peach had disappeared, then they both got up and went back to the basket chairs under the glass roof.